


For all the times you're not thinking of me

by MGB



Series: For All the Times [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, References to Past Child Abuse, references to alcoholism, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MGB/pseuds/MGB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
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</div><i> “I won't. I won't think of you. When I walk out that door, I don't plan on ever looking back. And I expect you to do the same.”</i><p>Though never intending to let his inner most thoughts caress the pages of the pricey journal given to him, Brian allows himself to be vulnerable and totally honest with himself for short moments in time, if only so in his own mind.</p><p>Set around season 1, episode 21</p>
            </blockquote>





	For all the times you're not thinking of me

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally betaed by f_ckinginibiza, but a few corrections have been made after. Any and all mistakes remaining are my own.
> 
> Banner by me (incl. drawing).
> 
> This was written as an exercise to help improve my flow in English. It was never intended as anything more, but I’ve been encouraged by others to post it so here goes…

**Justin:** "_Go. Go take a shower! Go to New York! Go to your new life! In a year… probably not even that long… you won't even remember my name. I'll just be that 'kid who wouldn't leave me alone, who thought he was in love with me.' If you fucking think of me at all._"

**Brian:** "_I won't. I won't think of you. When I walk out that door, I don't plan on ever looking back. And I expect you to do the same._"

_Queer as Folk (US)_  
Season 1, Episode 21  


  


That little twat. Didn’t he know that sentimentality only leaves you weak and vulnerable? That it will cost you in more ways than you’d ever be willing to pay. If not now, then later.

You sure learnt that lesson early in life. How the “treasured” ashtray you’d put your five-year-old little heart and soul into making for your mother would fly like the wind and fall to the floor like bloody grains of sand, after first cutting your father in the head, to keep him off of “her” bottle when payday was, too slowly, creeping closer and booze was being downed in the same speed as ever, if not even faster to embrace the oblivion where no wallets were ever empty and the ache of could have beens did not exist. That taught you that no matter how many four letter words you put into your projects, they would never be received the way they were at your friends houses. Ok, so sweat is not a four letter word but, when you’re five, it could just as well have been. 

Always a diligent student, lesson learnt, you moved on to things achieved for yourself. Things you alone could be proud of since your parents never would, no matter how hard you tried. How proud you had been the first time you were rewarded a cup for your team spirit, at the end of your first season on the soccer team, and even more so when your father later on put up a special shelf “for all the prizes you’ll win, no doubt” in your room. That was the first and only time you can ever remember getting an affectionate hair tousle by one of your parents and even that simple display of affection was crippled by the slight shake to it as the previous nights alcohol left his veins. Two more cups awarded, you lined your three cups up there, dreaming of the next one, maybe even the tournament cup one day. Every night you watched the moonlight reflected in them as you awaited the silence of the house that meant safety, for now, to fall asleep and every morning you dusted them off before getting ready for school.  
Then one day, you came home, your living room full of your dad’s drinking buddies watching the game. You'd known better than to stay in sight, so you headed up to start on next week's school work, your ticket to better days, days where you set the rules, afraid of no one. Even at eight you had known that money and knowledge talked and once achieved would set you free.  
On your way up, there had been a glint in the corner of your eye. You had given it a second glance only to find that the glint was your cups, laying there... trashed.  
You'd gone to get them and your father had seen you, “Hey, sonny boy. Maybe next time you could win yourself something better than that piece of trash you got there. Your mom’s in church as always, ignoring the dishes at home, so well, what the hell ‘let’s drink in style like the Vikings I thought’. Only landed me pouring my drink on the table. Piece of shit cups have holes in ‘em, made of cheap ass metal dressed in all shiny plastic film with a hole in the bottom for the screw to pass through. Should’ve known they reward trash with trash.”  
The next cup you won never made it onto your shelf. You put it in the “bar cabinet”, the brown bags from the liquor store your dad brought home with every new pay check, right away. You paid for that with a black eye and a broken rib. Apparently your logic was only logic to you and not to a mean drunk like your father. 

You learnt your lesson that time as well. Cups were for drinking, or well, if you’re drunk enough to at least try drink from them. You moved on in memorabilia. This time to a soccer jersey, worn scoring that last goal that won your team the tournament, saved by you with great affection.  
Only to be gone in a few seconds when your mom found it handy to wipe your fathers puke with in one of her rare acts of anything other than indifference towards you all. How’s that to show you how important you and your belongings were, what they truly thought of you?  
How a jersey, neatly folded in your top drawer came in handy in the other part of the upstairs, still, more than fifteen years later, surpasses your logic. You’ve even tried the boozed out of your mind, spiced with “herbs the Anita" way to crack that nut after a night boozing with your dad, landing on Michael's doorstep desperately wanting to know what in the world could be so bad about you that they’d treat you that way. Your own supposed “loving” family. 

Only memorabilia kept after that were your grades, necessary to get you from one step in life to the next. At least your parents taught you the value of a safety deposit box. Well, in their screwed up ‘nothing here at home of yours is safe or treasured’ kind of way. 

Memorabilia, sentimentality… Hrmph…  
Your Atlas, the “Pittsburgh’s Ads person of the Year” award, that others would have displayed proudly, you'd handed over to Cynthia, so fast it almost shattered in the marble flooring of that boring as hell hotel ballroom, so she could dump it on Ryder’s desk for him to gush and spontaneously come in his pants over. If it had had a built in vibrator you could have shoved it up his semi-homophobic ass and maybe gotten a raise out of it, at least. Much good that award did you. Only told the rest of them losers what you already knew. Well, at least it landed you here, in New York, ready for an interview at Kennedy & Collins. 

You look out the window and then back down at the book in your hands.  
A journal? He really expects you to write in a journal? Ever? That little piece of extremely fuckable blond boy ass.  
So, ok. He saw through your words you so desperately tried to mean, that you wouldn’t think of him. But to write a journal every time you missed him?  
If you hadn’t fucked him so many times, in more positions and places one could ever count, you’d be sure the boy had a pussy and he sure as hell should know you didn’t have one.  
'For all the times you’re NOT thinking of me', was written in gold on the cover of the pricy leather journal. Well, at least the boy had some taste. But come on, a pencil the exact same shade of blue as his lusting eyes under the blue lights above your bed, to top it off? Or was it just you who knew that exact shade of blue, that could recognize it in an instant, that could get a hard on from seeing that exact shade pour out of a pencil when signing a deal?  
So ok, sometimes just signing a deal would get you hard, but still. 

With a shake of your head you toss the journal back in your bag where you had found it earlier, hidden. Maybe this piece of sentementality you could keep. Use? Never. But to throw it? It would make you just like your father and aside from that it would feel like saying Justin was trash. Just cause the boy was a softy for the shmoozy things in life and you so weren’t his anything didn’t mean he deserved that. No one did. And Justin was… speci… not totally like everyone else. He deserved more. He deserved the world and then some even if you would never be the one to give it to him. Yeah, you would keep the book and the pencil. That, you could do for him.  
With that thought in your head, you push your glasses back on the bridge of your nose and head out of your hotel room toward the beginning of your new life.


End file.
